


The Sensation's Overwhelming

by CitrusVanille



Series: I Do Confess, It's The Mess That Feels So Right [10]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Evil, Boy-Who-Lived Neville Longbottom, Hurt/Comfort, Injured Neville, M/M, Slytherin Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-05-08 03:06:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14685162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CitrusVanille/pseuds/CitrusVanille
Summary: Technically, Harry is patrolling the corridors, as is his responsibility as a prefect, and that is what he will tell anyone who asks.





	The Sensation's Overwhelming

Technically, Harry is patrolling the corridors, as is his responsibility as a prefect, and that is what he will tell anyone who asks. Not that he expects anyone to ask. Or to even see anyone, really. It’s late, and most of the school is in bed, or, at least, cozy in their common rooms where rival house prefects won’t catch them and take away points.

Still, he is completely unsurprised to hear swift footsteps heading in his direction when he’s a corridor away from Umbridge’s office, casually treading the route between her frilly pink hell and Gryffindor Tower. He turns as they get closer, and Longbottom comes around the corner, not running, but moving fast. He stops sharply when he sees Harry.

“What do you want, Potter?” he asks wearily. He doesn’t even seem surprised that Harry’s there, just too tired to deal with him.

“Come with me,” Harry says, jerks his head farther along the passage.

Longbottom sighs, sounding irritated now. “I’m not in the mood. Go find your jollies somewhere else.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Not looking for jollies,” he says as patiently as he can. “I know what she did to your hand. Come on.” He takes Neville carefully by the wrist and tugs.

Longbottom sighs again, still clearly annoyed, but doesn’t resist, lets Harry tug him down the hall to an unused classroom.

Once the door is closed, Harry pulls out his wand to light the torches in the brackets along the walls, then turns back to Longbottom, whose wrist he’s still holding. “Come on,” he says again, leads him over to one of the semi-dusty desks and pushes him into a chair. “Let’s see what the old hag’s done.” Gently, he unwinds the scarf Neville’s holding in place, and turns his hand over in both of his own to get a look at the words carved out, red and still bleeding angrily, even after the pressure of the makeshift bandage. He hisses out a curse, then looks up.

Longbottom’s eyeing him warily, but he doesn’t say anything, lips pressed tightly together from the pain.

“Right,” Harry lets go, and fumbles in his robe, pulling out a bowl and a bottle of Murtlap solution. He places the bowl on the desk and pours the yellow liquid into it, careful not to spill. “Put your hand in that,” he gestures with the empty bottle.

Longbottom turns his wary look on the bowl, then back to Harry. “What is it?”

Harry grits his teeth for a moment to keep from snapping. “It’s a solution made from strained and pickled Murtlap tentacles,” he explains when he has himself in check. “It will help.”

For a long moment, Harry’s sure Longbottom’s about to refuse. Granted, they’ve never been friends, and there’s no love lost between Gryffindor and Slytherin, but it’s not like Harry personally has ever caused Neville harm, and he’s been enjoying – whatever it is they’ve been doing for the last several weeks. He’d hate to see that stop just because their newest idiot teacher has taken to maiming students the Ministry doesn’t like.

“I haven’t poisoned it,” Harry finally says, when the silence has stretched on. “Look.” He sticks a finger in the bowl and holds it there. Nothing happens, obviously. He pulls the finger out and wipes it roughly on his robes.

At least Neville has the decency to look a little ashamed. “I didn’t think you had,” he mutters, and submerges his whole hand before Harry can call him on it. The tension in his face eases almost immediately, and he lets out a puff of air at the relief. He gives Harry a startled look.

“Told you,” Harry tells him, tries to sound more smug than relieved. It’s not his hand, after all.

Neville doesn’t even roll his eyes, just nods. “Where did you learn this?” he asks eventually.

“My father taught me.” Harry doesn’t add that his father used to have to make it a lot, before the Wolfsbane Potion was approved, back when Harry was sent to stay with his cousins on full moon nights while Padfoot and Moony ran around the estate. Longbottom and the entire rest of Hogwarts might know that Harry’s dad is a werewolf, but that doesn’t mean Harry needs to talk about the details. “It’s not difficult, and it’s useful for all sorts of things.” He waves pointedly at the use it’s currently being put to.

A light flush rises up Longbottom’s neck, but he doesn’t rise to it, and they lapse back into silence.

They stand there for several minutes, both watching Neville’s hand float in the yellow liquid and not making eye contact. It’s starting to feel awkward when there’s a noise somewhere outside the room and they both jump, looking automatically towards the door.

“Upstairs somewhere, I think,” Neville says, but he’s pulling his hand out of the bowl and delicately patting it dry.

“Wouldn’t want to be caught out after curfew,” Harry agrees dryly.

Neville quirks a wry half-grin at him and holds up his injured hand. “At least I’ve got proof I was in detention. What’s your excuse?”

Harry snorts a laugh. “I’m a prefect,” he says haughtily. “I’m patrolling.”

“Right,” Neville shakes his head, but looks amused. He glances back at the bowl. “Look, I –”

“Don’t,” Harry cuts him off. He fishes his wand out and waves it to carefully siphon the liquid back into its bottle. He pushes bottle and bowl into Neville’s hands. “Murtlap starts to lose potency after a while, but it should still help for a day or two.”

“I’m sure I can get Hermione to brew more,” Neville says, tucking both into his robes.

Harry scowls, but settles for heading for the door and peering cautiously out into the corridor. The coast clear, he motions for Neville to follow, and douses the lights in the classroom. “Don’t get caught,” he says, as he pulls the door shut behind them, then turns towards the Slytherin common room.

“Hey, Potter,” Neville calls softly after him.

Harry turns back.

“Thanks.” Neville grins, and sets out in the opposite direction.

Harry rolls his eyes at the idiot, but can’t help feeling just the slightest bit pleased. Giving patrolling up as a bad job, and shaking his head at himself as much as at Neville, he heads for his dorm, and bed.


End file.
